


bones

by smallbeans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anorexic Stiles, Child Neglect, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Frontotemporal Dementia, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Pack Family, Past Child Abuse, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Stiles-centric, Witches, supportive pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-12-25 10:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12034176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: Stiles developed an eating disorder from his mother when she was going through the stages of Frontotemporal Dementia. After she died, Stiles didn't even realise he was carrying on the bad habit. Years fly by, and Stiles is still doing it, only now, he doesn't even realise that not eating is wrong.Or, Stiles develops an eating disorder without realising until it's too late.





	bones

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I apologise for the appalling attempt at a summary. I truly do suck at those.
> 
> I've had this idea in my head for _so_ long. I promise I am actually working on my other WIP's, I just miss writing sterek and these little ficlets have been sitting in my drafts for months so I'm just writing them while I get over my writers block for other stories.
> 
> **MAJOR WARNINGS APPLY.**

It all began when his mum first started getting sick, when the symptoms began appearing. It was long before she was even diagnosed, long before anyone noticed there was a problem, that there was something wrong.

Stiles didn't even realise what she was doing at first. He didn't realise how it was going to effect him, change him. At first, he thought he was helping. He was only eight at the time, barely old enough to understand what was happening to him.

Weight means nothing to an eight year old. It doesn't even occur to them what they're eating as long as it tastes nice. They eat when they're hungry, they eat what they want but at the end of the day, they'll eat anything to serve the feeling of hunger in their bellies.

Stiles was different. He was  _shown_  different. He saw things other eight year olds didn't.

The first time Stiles skipped a meal was when he was eight, and he didn't even realise he had until his dad got home from work and asked what he had for dinner. The confusion must have been clear in Stiles' expression when he stammered that oh. . . he hadn't eaten yet. John, a deputy at the time, had frowned, picking Stiles up from the living room floor and balancing him on his hip.

"Where's your mum, kiddo?" He'd asked.

"She's in the garden," Stiles had replied, and John's frown had deepened - it was November after all.

He'd taken Stiles into the kitchen, plopping him down in one of the chairs and said he'd be back in a minute to make him a sandwich. Stiles had sat there as his father disappeared out the backdoor. A few minutes later, he was leading his mother, who was covered in dirt, skin blue and brown, into the house and upstairs. Stiles heard the sound of the bath running, and half an hour later, his dad came back down, looking tired and worried. He didn't even speak to Stiles as he disappeared into the back garden again.

It was ages before he came back in, and Stiles didn't move from the chair. He twitches and fidgeted, uncomfortable from the now obvious hunger ache in his tummy, but he didn't move. He stayed on the dining chair, crossing his arms and leaning his chin on them on the table. He didn't know how late it was when his father returned, but he was dirty and pale. He frowned at Stiles sitting at the dining table.

"It's late, kiddo. Time for bed," he had said, and Stiles was going to protest about dinner, about how his stomach hurt because he was hungry, but then he realised that the last thing his dad needed tonight was to have to make Stiles dinner as well. So, he hopped down from the chair and went upstairs to bed.

That was the first of many missed meals.

*****

The missed dinners soon evolved into his mother forgetting his lunches. He'd go to school without lunch, and Scott always gave him half of his sandwich. They made sure to sit away from the teachers so they wouldn't see, because he didn't want to get Scott or his mum in trouble.

In a way, it got worse from then on. Stiles began to realise that every time his mother forgot to feed him, she would get in trouble. HIs father got angry, got scared, got worried. He'd shout, and then he'd apologise because his mother was so cluelessly confused as to what she was doing wrong. So, Stiles started lying. When his dad came home and asked if he'd eaten, he'd say yes, regardless of if he actually had. He taught himself to make simple food like toast, so he snacked on that when he could to ease the pain in his tummy.

It wasn't like his mother wasn't eating, because she was. She spent most of her time in the kitchen or on the sofa with a packet of biscuits. But unlike before, she never made anything for Stiles, didn't offer him anything. He didn't take it personally, because he knew she was sick, far long before his father even suspected she was.

There was small things on top of the missed meals. Times when his father was home for dinner, there were many occasions when his mother would reach across and take some food off his plate, eating it herself. The first few times it happened, Stiles moaned about it, reaching to take it back. That was when they finally realised something was wrong: when she slapped his hand away and screamed. The horrific smack on his frail skin went ignored after she let out the most shrilling, shattering scream and launched from her chair. His father was up in an instant, calming her down with soothing words and comforting touches, completely ignoring Stiles. The small boy was still in his chair, hand clutched to his chest, tears trailing down his cheeks. He bit his lips to silent the sobs that threatened to spill. His dad needed to focus on his mother.

Stiles stopped moaning about his mother taking his food from then on. He let it happen, staying silent.

*****

Stiles was nine when his mother was medically diagnosed with Frontotemporal Dementia. His dad finally decided to do something about his mother's changes when she full-fledged slapped Stiles across the face for trying to take a cupcake from the cupboard.

John had launched from where he was sitting at the dining table, reading a paper as he'd just got home from work. He'd scooped Stiles off the floor, the small boy crying from the pain flaring in his red cheek. He was shouting but Stiles didn't listen, he was too shocked that his mother had hit him.

He was just so hungry.

Hours later, he sat in the waiting room while his dad and mum were somewhere in the hospital, getting tests done to see what was wrong with his mother.

Stiles was curled in on himself, thin arms wrapped around his knees as he tried to make himself as small as possible. His cheek was aching, eyes sore from the crying.

It didn't take long before Melissa found him, looking sad but still sending him a smile. Stiles was smart enough to see the sadness through it, though.

She asked what happened to his cheek, and without thought Stiles told her he'd fallen.

She nodded, but didn't seem convinced. Stiles rushed to say it wasn't his mother's fault.

"Stiles, has mummy been feeding you?" Melissa had asked, tone so gentle and soft.

Stiles had looked down at his hands, sniffing because he didn't know how to answer that. He hated lying, especially to Melissa.

Apparently, his lack of reply was good enough for her. She placed a hand on his knee, and when he looked up, she smiled again.

"How about I see if I can get you something to eat?" She asked.

He nodded, and quickly asked with a small voice, "Will mummy get into trouble?"

"No, honey," Melissa shook her head. "Mummy's not in trouble."

That night, Stiles had a packet of crisps and a sandwich for dinner. He ate with Melissa by his side, hunched in the waiting room because his mum and dad still weren't back.

Stiles doesn't know what time he fell asleep, but he was shaken out of sleep when he was being picked up, cradled in someones arms.

"Daddy?" He blearily asked, cracking his eyes open.

He remembers his father's bloodshot eyes, purple with exhaustion and red from crying. "I'm here, kiddo. We're going home now."

"Where's mummy?"

"Mummy's going to be staying here for a while,"

His mother never came home after that night. Stiles visited her in hospital, reading her books and rambling about his day. He talked to avoid the inevitable, and it was like the more he talked, the more his old mummy came back. She smiled more, looking tired and pale, but it was better than her screaming. She held his hand, hugged him when he had to leave and kissed his forehead when he fell asleep in her hospital bed with her.

Stiles still remembers the bad days. The days she'd wake up and not remember who he was, why he was there. The days the sad mummy was back, taking his food, slapping him and ignoring him. She never mentioned it when she came out of the haze, never apologised. It was like she didn't remember switching to this completely new person. Daddy and Melissa told him it was her memory that was making her sick, that she couldn't remember anymore.

He remembers watching his mother vomit, bring all her food back up when she'd eaten. She soon began to refuse to eat, and because she couldn't, Stiles didn't because felt bad about eating in front of her. His dad was always working, throwing himself into work to distract himself from the catastrophe in his life. So Stiles spent most of his life when he was ten at the hospital, keeping his mum company and ignoring the hunger pains in his stomach, because eating in front of her was mean.

As his mother faded in front of him, Stiles learned a lot of things.

He learned that eating isn't a necessity, it's a choice and you can survive on a small snack a day when you get a chance to leave your mum for five minutes.

He learned that the he had two mothers. His old mother, who was nice and gentle and warm. And his new mother, who didn't smile, who didn't remember, who screamed and cried and hit.

He learned that loosing your memory can kill you.

He learned that death isn't a choice, it comes when it wants and there is nothing you can do about it.

On the day his mother died, she was just like his old mummy. She stroked his hair as he read to her, she kissed his forehead and told him she loved him.

And then she was gone, her eyes closed and the room was suddenly filled with shouting doctors and a shrilling beeping. Stiles was being hauled out of the chair, dragged out of the room where he cried and struggled in Melissa's arms.

He didn't see his mummy again after that.

*****

Things didn't change much after his mother died. His father still worked, stayed at the station more than he was home. More often than not, he spent the night in the cot and didn't return home for days. And that was fine, Stiles was growing up. He made toast for breakfast and dinner, he was fine.

As he gets older, Stiles doesn't even realise he is doing anything wrong. Every time he touches a bit of food, he feels guilty. It feels wrong to eat, he feels like he's betraying his mother. He manages to always ignore the pain in his stomach when he makes his father dinner everyday.

And no one notices. Not for a long time, anyway. Stiles has always been a skinny kid, even before his mother became ill and made him feel like eating was a crime. So maybe it wasn't noticeable. If Stiles is honest, he doesn't even remember when it started to get bad. It wasn't like he avoided food, it just made him feel bad eating it because in his mothers last weeks of life, she couldn't. Every time he ate, he felt the slap against his skin, he heard the hideous screams his mother used to let out.

So Stiles' eating doesn't get any better. He makes his dad dinner every night, because after a while, something changes in his fathers agenda and he is home every night instead of at the station. Stiles doesn't know what happened, but it feels nice.

It gets a lot worse after Scott was bitten. Werewolves, who knew? And with werewolves, and whole new supernatural world opened up. A world they didn't know, a world they had to research and explore. Stiles dives in head first, intrigued and excited. This was something new, something interesting. Something to turn his plain life into a fun one.

And with this new world, he meets Derek Hale. Attractive, angry, emotionally-constipated, Derek Hale. Stiles will give the dude his due, he was absolutely terrifying the first few times they met. But then they got the Kate and Peter situations sorted, Derek made a pack and eventually, Stiles and Scott migrated into it. The pack grew and flourished and before Stiles knew it, he had a whole new group of friends.

Stiles throws himself into research, helping the pack uncover new mystery's. He drifts from his father, covering his tracks and keeping this new world completely secret from him.

And at the end of the day, Stiles forgets to eat.

He spends all day running around with the pack, spends all night researching and then his dad would be there, frowning at him and looking at him like he doesn't know who he is anymore.

"What's going on with you?" His father asks one night, in the middle of junior year.

They are sitting at the dining table, eating the healthy meal Stiles had prepared. He has drilled his dad everyday since his mothers death about eating healthy, because secretly he isn't prepared to loose his last living parent.

Stiles doesn't realise at the time that he is being so hypocritical.

"Nothing," he replies, taking a sip of his water and moving the food around on his plate a little bit more.

"Don't play dumb, Stiles," his father practically snaps, expression stony. "Don't you think I've noticed you sneaking out at night? That you spend all day out, come home for dinner and disappear into your bedroom for hours."

"Dad, I'm sixteen, spending all my time in my bedroom really isn't that abnormal—"

"My deputies have told me you've been frequently seen with Derek Hale," his father interrupts.

Stiles frowns, opening his mouth but all his words falling flat.

"He's a criminal, Stiles," his father ploughs on.

Stiles snorts. "He didn't actually get charged, y'know. And anyways, the only reason you took him in was because of me and Scott. He's innocent, dad. The dude wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Oh yeah? He seems pretty violent to me," John replies.

Stiles flails his arms around, his fork clattering around on the plate as he drops it. "When has he ever been violent to you?"

"Do you think I haven't noticed how you and that group are always in the middle of a crime scene? How he's practically  _adopted_  a group of teenagers?" John growls.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Hardly adopted, dad. And he did them good, got them out of bad situations. You don't understand—"

"You're damn right I don't!" John shouts, "Probably because you don't tell me anything anymore, Stiles!"

What is he supposed to say? What  _can_  he say to  _that?_  He can't just come out and tell his dad everything, tell his dad about the supernatural and the death and the wolves. His dad won't understand, his dad won't  _believe_  him.

So Stiles closes himself off even more. The best way to avoid hurting his dad is to withdraw from him completely.

Stiles spends all his time at Derek's loft, throwing around theories with Peter - who is newly resurrected and has apparently grown out of his psychotic stage. He forms relationships with each member of the pack, makes peace with Lydia and leaves his crush for her in the grave. He gets close to Erica and Isaac, finds comfort in Boyd's gentle silence.

No one mentions his lack of muscle or fat, or the way he never eats around them, or the way he spends all of lunch moving the food around on his plate and talking so fast they don't even realise he's not putting any food into his mouth. His does the same with his father: distract him.

Distraction is the best form of secrecy. Stiles isn't lying, he isn't pretending, everybody else simply doesn't see.

*****

Jackson moves to London after the Kanima, but that is the last concern on Stiles' long, everlasting list. Stiles is more concerned with Gerard, more concerned with how he's going to be able to hide the bruises and cuts and broken ribs he's gained on that night.

Every time he closes his eyes, he see's the blood-dripped belt, glistening in the low light of the basement. He see's Erica and Boyd, hanging half-unconscious from the ceiling, eyes drooping and limbs trembling.

Every time there's silence, he hears Gerard's voice, low and sadistic, he hears his cackling laugh, he hears the sound of the belt hitting his skin, the sound of it splitting. He hears his own screams.

He doesn't sleep. He can't keep his eyes closed. His dad spends more time at work than ever, with the climbing crime rates and Stiles' bad lying, his father only comes home to sleep for a few hours before he's going back to the station again.

Everything aches. Stiles' whole body is one big bruise. His back is a mess, skin split and barely holding together by the bandages he struggled to stick on. His chest is a watercolour painting of purple and black, his breath wheezes when he breaths and his lungs burn.

He throws up his breakfast of toast the day after, and the whole thing makes his vision go white with pain, ribs screaming and body repelling against him as he gags and wretches into the porcelain bowl of the toilet. The whole experience almost makes him black out, and when the painful throbbing doesn't go away by dinner time, Stiles skips the meal. He can't go through that again.

So for the first time, Stiles skips a meal for his own benefit, not because of guilt over his mother.

And just like the other skipped meals, it's not the last.

*****

Physically, Stiles heals. The bruises fade, the cuts scab and scar. He manages to keep it all to himself, invisible under his clothes. He keeps himself constantly topped on Tylenol to stop the flinches and winces whenever something hurts. It does it's job for the most part, and the rest Stiles manages to ignore it. He avoids the pack as much as he can without drawing too much attention, keeping the entire ordeal with Gerard a secret. The pack don't ask what happened to him on the night of the lacrosse game, and Stiles is never going to tell them. They are distracted with teaching Jackson control before he leaves and genially recovering from the chaos caused. 

So physically, Stiles gets over his injuries, and when he does, things are almost back to normal.

Things also calm down, the supernatural world finally giving Beacon Hills a break. 

When the anniversary of his mothers death comes, Stiles avoids food like the plague. He feels sick with guilt, stomach permanently twisting with nausea. His father spends the days around the anniversary at the station, distracting himself with work, and essentially distracting himself from the reminder of how detached him and Stiles have become.

*****

The first time Derek notices anything is wrong with Stiles is when they're all gathered at the Hale loft at the beginning of November. The television plays, Isaac, Boyd and Jackson staring intently at the screen as the sports match plays. Allison and Scott are sitting at the dining table, doing homework while Lydia paints her nails. Derek is sitting on one of the vacant couches, reading book in hand and taking mild amusement from the male wolves shouting at the television.

His attention is snatched when Stiles and Erica start bickering, in some kind of reoccurring argument about whose the best Marvel character (an argument to which they have every. Single. Pack meeting). It slowly gets louder, and then Stiles is leaping across the couch and tackling Erica to the floor. Derek doesn't even twitch as he watches the pair of them roll on the floor, screaming and shouting. Erica starts tickling Stiles soon enough, something the pack recently discovered and have used against Stiles as his strongest weak spot.

Stiles shrieks bloody murder, and Derek is a moment away from leaping up and taking Stiles into his arms, to rub his scent all over the boy. He knows Stiles is going to smell like Erica more than pack now, and he truly hates it - not that he's going to do anything about it.

As Stiles withers on the floor, tears rolling down his cheeks and Erica laughing manically above him, the whole pack watch in amusement.

And then Stiles' shirt rides up, and Derek can't even get excited about it because suddenly, he see's something that has been hidden from him under layers and layers of clothing for years.

He can count every single one of Stiles' ribs. 

His eyes zero in on the obvious bones, the pale, milky white skin stretched tightly over the curve. His stomach is hollow, caved in like a bowl. His jeans that are baggy around his waist sag down and show the stomach-twisting sight of two jutting hip bones sticking out sharply.

No one mentions it though. Soon enough, the pair get tired and Erica just opts for laying on top of Stiles in victory. It soon turns into a dog-pile and everyone is jumping on.

Once again, the situation is ignored.

*****

"Stiles, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you look like shit,"

"Always the charmer, Sourwolf,"

*****

When winter comes, Stiles feels the cold more than anyone else. He doesn't think anything of it though - he's always been a cold one during the harsher months. Really, he's always cold, but nothing a sweatshirt or two won't fix.

During the colder months, Stiles wears double to protect him from the colder weather. He ignores the wolves mocking, moaning about their built in heaters. It's not until Lydia and Allison tell him their not cold that it apparently becomes apparent that Stiles is abnormally chilly.

No one thinks twice about it, though. Stiles doesn't even think about it. This isn't the first winter he's extra cold. He just wears more clothes so no one mentions it again. Problem solved.

Until it's not.

Until Stiles feels fatigue grip his bones tighter than before. Until Stiles struggles to concentrate in class, or when he falls asleep at his desk despite getting a (mostly) full night sleep. Until Stiles is kicked off the lacrosse team because coach doesn't want him to pass out on the field.

"You look like hell, Stilinski," Finstock told him. "I don't need my players, even the ones who sit on the bench, to be passing out and dying on my field. Go eat a damn meal, you're too thin."

Stiles doesn't say anything. He just sputters, glows a horrid red and sulks out of the locker room. The guys tease him about it at lunch, and it's Scott who pulls him aside later and asks if he's actually alright.

"I'm fine," Stiles replies, shaking his head. "Coach is just an asshole. I'll try out again next semester. Besides, he'll miss me too much."

Scott grins at him like he always does, clapping him on the shoulder and squeezing gentle, "Hell yeah, bro!"

It's not until later that the problem Stiles didn't realise existed is suddenly blown wide in bold letters.

It's after school, when the pack have organised to meet at Derek's for another pack night. Stiles is the last to arrive because he had to stay late in detention with Harris for falling asleep in class.

When he arrives, he feels fine. A bit tired, but fine.

He walks up the ridiculous amount of stairs up to Derek's loft, and when he gets to the top, he's swaying. His head feels like it's pumping with helium, heavy yet light on his neck. Black spots dance across his vision and he feels like there's a construction sight working behind his eyes, pulsating and throbbing. He has to lean against the wall before the large door, catching his breath that's shallow and wheezing. His legs feel numb underneath him, unsteady and shaky. He stumbles towards the door, trying to shake off the weird sensation.

The pack all look at him when he walks in, their faces twisting. Scott stands up slowly from the couch.

"Stiles, man, you okay?"

Stiles opens his mouth, but before he can get the words out, his legs are giving out and everything is going black.

*****

Derek knew something was wrong for months, the trouble was, he didn't say anything, and now Stiles is passed out on the loft floor and won't wake up.

He'd heard the sound of Stiles' breathing moments before the loft door opened and by then, a deep frown of concern was already on Derek's face. He'd walked out of the kitchen in time to see Stiles stumble through the loft door on new-born legs, shaking underneath him. His complexion was worryingly washed out, all the colour drained from his skin. His eyes looked like they had sunken into his head, blurry and blown wide.

"Stiles, man, you okay?" Scott had asked, the  _idiot_.  _Obviously_  Stiles  _wasn't_  okay, and that was proven when Stiles opened his mouth, only to have his eyes roll to the back of his head and his whole body dropped like the strings holding him up had been cut.

Derek was flying across the room, catching Stiles' head before it had time to slam against the hard floor. The pack were running in hysteria, shouting and calling out, but Derek ignored them all. Stiles' head lolled in his hands, his eyes fluttering before going still.

"Stiles!" Derek shouts, and the words sound muffled in his own ears.

"Is he okay?" Isaac asks.

"What happened to him?"

"He fainted, dumb ass."

"He passed out," Lydia corrects, glaring at Jackson as she does so. "We should get him on the couch and try to wake him up."

"Did he hit his head?" Scott panics. He's crouching on the other side of Stiles, facing Derek but eyes so blown with panic Derek isn't sure if the teen is really seeing anything anymore.

"No, Derek caught him in time," Lydia replies, speaking before Derek has a chance to open his mouth. 

"Scott, call your mother and tell her what's happened. Isaac, make a sandwich and grab a glass of water. Lydia, come with me and help me wake him up," Derek orders, winding his arms under Stiles' knees and around his shoulders. Lydia assists him in making sure Stiles' head in resting comfortably on his shoulder before he's standing, lifting Stiles' disturbingly weightless body as he rises. 

He crosses the room and gentle lowers Stiles so he's laying on the couch, sinking into the leather like a warm butter in a bowl. Stiles is completely out for the count, not even a flutter of his eyelids as Derek and Lydia try to draw him back to the land of consciousness with encouraging and soft words. Derek can't even find it in himself to hide his unexpected panic and desperation for Stiles to open his eyes again, to reveal those big, brown, Bambi eyes and prove to Derek that he was okay.

But Stiles isn't okay, and it is all too clear now as Derek's finds his hand holding the younger teens. He feels the skeletal bones underneath his fingers, the skin cold to touch, the tendons that are too close to the tightly stretched skin. Stiles looks like a skeleton as he lays, porcelain white, on the worn sofa in Derek's dim loft. 

"What the hell has happened to him?" Erica whispers above them. 

Derek doesn't know how to answer that, he just squeezes Stiles' hand a little bit tighter and asks him again, with words as smooth as honey, for him to wake up.

It takes them half an hour to get Stiles to come around. In that time, the sandwich Isaac made goes soggy and abandoned on the coffee table, Scott has been on the phone to Melissa three times and Erica has paced a depression in the floor of his loft. 

Derek is the first to react to the slight uptake in his heart beat and the weak groan that fills the silent, thick air. He's getting up off the floor he'd slouched on, crouching next to the couch beside Stiles' head as his eyes flutter open.

Two big, cinnamon eyes open to be greeted by a crowded pack, looming over him. 

"You're a fucking idiot," Jackson says, breaking the silence over them.

Stiles' eyebrows shoot up his forehead, "Wha. . ."

"I agree," Isaac adds. "Your a damn moron, Stilinski."

Derek can't manage a word out as the memory of what happened appears to come rushing back to Stiles.

"Did I blackout?"

"We don't know," Lydia replies, and Derek doesn't need to look to know she's glaring at the teenager below. "You just walked in and collapsed."

Stiles closes his eyes, letting out a sigh, "Shit."

"Shit indeed," Erica snaps. "You wouldn't wake up! We were going to take you to the damn hospital!"

Stiles' eyes break open, and there's a unmissable spark of panic in his tone, "No! You don't. . . there's no need for that. I'm fine, I swear! I'm fine—"

The teen try's to push himself into a sitting position, jelly-like arms scrambling at the couch cushions for assistance. 

"You're not fine," Derek doesn't realise he's spoken until Stiles freezes, eyes snapping towards him, his porcelain white skin startling Derek more. "You passed out and almost brained yourself on my loft floor."

"I'm okay, honest!" Stiles insists, half sitting, half laying where he'd stilled after Derek practically snarled at him. "I just forgot to have lunch, that's all—"

"And breakfast, and dinner," Derek growls, "and for a long time too. Do you see this, Stiles?" He holds up the teen's sickly thin wrist, so small Derek can completely encase it in his hand without pressing into the skin. 

"It's my adderall," Stiles replies quickly— too quickly. Every wolf in the room hears the bleep of his heartbeat. "It makes my metabolism act like it's on steroids, okay?"

"That's bull—" Jackson starts, but Stiles coldly cuts him off.

"Have you ever researched the side effects of adderall?" Stiles asks, glaring heatedly. 

"Yes," Lydia replies. "You told me when we talked about your insomnia. I know weight loss and loss of appetite is a symptom, but not like this, Stiles. This is. . . this is  _serious_."

"It's not," Stiles tries, but he's lost all the fight in his tone. Derek's heart cracks in his chest as Stiles sags back, closing his eyes as tears sprout in them. "It's not."

And Derek can't stand this anymore. He needs to know what is wrong with Stiles, and he needs to know now.

"Everybody out," he says, and out of the corner of his eye, he see's all their heads snap towards him. He looks at them, his stoney expression not shifting in the slightest. "You heard me. Out, all of you."

"But—"

"I said  _out!_ " He snarls, flashing his eyes. He hopes they see the reassurance behind the action, hear the need in his tone. "I need to speak to Stiles privately."

They all look like they're going to protest, but eventually, they leave (Allison having to physically  _drag_  Scott out and turn his puppy eyes away from the pair at the couch). When the loft door shuts, Derek looks back at Stiles, who's eyes are open and unseeing as he stares down at the end of the couch.

"Stiles—"

"I'm not sick," Stiles interrupts, his words so fragile and soft Derek feels them float through the air like falling snowflakes. He breaks his gaze away from the end of the settee, eyes moving sluggishly so they're staring into the alphas, golden rings shining with so much vulnerability it makes Derek want to snatch him off the sofa and wrap him in a blanket, keeping him safe from the pain of the world. "I'm not. . . I'm not doing this to be thin, Derek. I don't. . . I don't do it on purpose."

"Then tell me why," Derek whispers, leaning forward a bit.

Stiles closes his eyes and shakes his head. "You won't understand."

"Stiles—"

"Please, Derek, don't make me explain," Stiles begs, opening his eyes that glisten with a fresh set of tears. 

"Stiles, you're  _killing_  yourself," Derek replies, and Stiles' face falls with shock, mouth gaping the slightest. Derek barrels on, he knows his words are going to hurt Stiles, but he needs the teen to understand. "You're not stupid, you  _know_  this is going to kill you. I need you to tell me what you're doing, because as your alpha, I will not stand for you to do this to yourself."

A tear rolls down Stiles' cheek, and it takes all of Derek's control not to reach up and wipe it away.

"I don't know how to tell you," Stiles whispers, voice cracking.

"For someone who's always finding ways to talk, I find that very surprising," Derek replies, lips twitching in a smile.

Stiles laughs softly, and the sound immediately brightens the room. 

And then he explains, in stuttering and broken words, that this is something he's been doing since he was a child. Derek fails to hide his shock and anger as Stiles tells him what his mother has burdened him to do. As Stiles explains the feeling of betrayal and guilt, in the aftermath of the things his mother did when her terminal condition changed her at such a fragile time in Stiles' life.

By the end, Stiles is a sobbing, shaking mess, and Derek doesn't hesitate to pull him into his chest. Stiles curls into him immediately, thin, bony fingers gripping and clenching his fists in Derek's shirt as he cries into the alpha's chest.

"You're going to be okay, Stiles," Derek murmurs into the teens hair. "You're going to be okay."

*****

Things don't get better after that, but they certainly don't go unnoticed. Stiles doesn't consciously starve himself for the reasons people believe to understand. As assumed, he does it out of guilt, but it has nothing to do with weight. He repels from food because of a long lasting betrayal he felt over his mothers illness, something that ruined him so young and has gone on and on ignored. Stiles has only ever explained himself once, but as he sits in front of his father, he finds himself struggling for words to explain what's happening to him. 

He didn't expect his father to understand, but he certainly didn't expect his father to look at him like he'd betrayed  _him_. 

"You. . . you're mother did this?"

"No!" Stiles rushes. "No, dad, she didn't— it's not her fault, it's mine. I—"

"You're starving yourself because she. . . because of what she did,"

"No," Stiles shakes his head vigorously. The desperation in his voice is so thick it almost chokes him. "Please, dad, it's not mums fault. She didn't know what she was doing."

"Oh, hell, kid," John sighs, tears rolling down his cheeks as he rounds the dinner table and pulls his son into a hug, refusing to wince at the feeling of his sharp bones that feel so prominent under his clothes. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I didn't realise this sooner. You. . . this isn't your fault, Stiles." 

Stiles just keeps muttering broken and fragile apologies into his father's shoulder, making his jacket wet with his tears. 

That night, the sheriff calls into the station, announcing an emergency night off. Stiles' protests go unheard as they settle down on the couch with Reese's pieces and Star Wars. 

Things aren't fixed between them, and Stiles knows his father is still worried about the space that had been so quickly stretched between them. Their distance had been going on for so long, and Stiles knows his fathers trust in him is as thin as Stiles' appetite when his father hands him packets of the chocolate and peanut butter cups. 

Stiles doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to someone carrying him, telling him to go back to sleep. It doesn't sound like his father, but he's too tired to figure it out as the sway of the person's steps lolls him back to sleep. 

*****

The pack become insufferable. Stiles assumes it's Derek who tells them, because the following Monday, the pack meet Stiles in the carpark and instantly, Stiles knows the day is going to be painful. 

Lydia practically shoves the food down his throat at lunch, and each one of them shadow him the rest of the day as if they believe he's going to dash to the bathroom to dispose of the food in his stomach.

He doesn't know if it's the packs constant watch over him and breathing down his neck, or the food in his stomach that makes him sick with guilt, but Stiles can feel the waves of nausea swimming in his stomach like a brewing hurricane.

*****

Stiles regrets telling everyone only days after they find out. Why he believed things would stay as they were, he has no idea.

The pack are a constant presence, breathing down his neck and pestering him like a child unable to look after themselves. They watch him eat like a hawk, smiling at him like he's achieved the worlds biggest challenge. It's patronising, and annoying, and it makes Stiles more sick than the idea of what he's doing to his mother.

His father changes his work hours so he can stay with him when he's home, and that frustrates Stiles more than anything. He isn't so important that his father has to change his entire life around him and his. . . issues. John always watches Stiles when he cooks, now for both of them, as his father won't let him miss another meal. 

On weekends, Stiles is at the loft, and if he isn't, the pack are at his house. They have more movie nights, loaded with pizza and snacks. Stiles knows what they're doing, and he doesn't fall in the trap. He eats the food handed to him, but doesn't take any himself. 

He still hasn't told his father about the supernatural, and it isn't even a thought in his mind as he tries to dodge and avoid the pack as much as possible. He loves and appreciates them all, but no matter how much he tries to excuse their actions, they will never truly understand why he does what he does.

Everybody knowing Stiles' secret, his habit, doesn't make him any better. He doesn't do it for weight, he doesn't do it for self image, he does it because of the heavy stone of guilt that sits inside him every time a piece of food touches his tongue. And Stiles finds it almost hilarious when Scott asks him why he isn't gaining weight, why he isn't getting any better.

Stiles doesn't know what makes him more angry: that they can't understand why he isn't getting better, or their oblivious beliefs that he's going to.

*****

Apparently, fate just decides to prove to Stiles that when he is at rock bottom, the world is not going to wait for him to get himself back up before it kicks him again.

Stiles has no time to get stable ground underneath himself before another threat is rolling into town, another thing to hide from his father, another thing to throw Stiles from the control panel of his life. 

The pack decide not to tell Stiles about the witches that come into the town, and it's Erica who breaks the ice between them. She sends him a short and vague text on Saturday night, when he's home alone because he's spending the night with 'his father'. 

( ERICA )  _need help @ loft. witches._

Stiles only reads it's once before he's leaping up from the bed he was laying on, not even bothering to pause his laptop as it plays Netflix. He's crossing the room, grabbing his bestiary from the shelf and flipping it open. He has added additional notes on paper and post-it-notes, and he flips to the page he remembers about witches, at the very back, covered in notes and additional information he's gotten off the internet. When he reads what he needs, he's grabbing another hoodie off the back of his desk chair and slipping on his trainers. He grabs his rucksack from under his bed that's filled with resources and weapons. 

He dashes downstairs, passing his father in the living room and ignoring his surprised calls as he grabs his keys off the side and disappears out the front door.

He finds himself at the loft only minutes later, having sped through the town and parking a little down the road to avoid the witches hearing the chugging of the Jeep.

He takes the stairs, despite Derek having gotten the elevator fixed a few weeks ago after Stiles' collapse. He's shaking when he gets to the top, and he does his best to silence his gasps of breath that is punched out of his lungs. 

The loft door is open, and as he creeps up the last steps on the stairs, the sight of the pack and the witches come into view. Stiles kind of wishes the cliche ideas of black, pointy hats and warts were the true image of witches, because the real image is far more terrifying. 

They look like normal people, the perfect disguise. They're dressed in black, long coats down to their knees. They have dark hair that is tied back in slick ponytails, hair so long it reaches past the base of their spines. Their skin is white, and they have long nails making their thin fingers look terrifying as they clasp around blades and knives. 

His pack are on the floor, kneeling in a line with their arms behind their backs. Stiles has no clue how the three witches were able to restrain six wolves, a hunter and a banshee. 

Stiles crouches down, practically crawling on the floor towards the door. He hides out of sight behind the wall, peering around and into the loft. 

"This has been a long time coming," one of the witches say, her grass green eyes cold and hard as she looks down on the wolves like dirt. "The Hale land belongs to a weak alpha, and it's about time someone took it."

Stiles has to hold a hand over his mouth to stop himself from making a sound. Of course, witches have come to Beacon Hills to take the Hale land from them.

Stiles unzips the rucksack silently, his nimble hands trembling, as he opens the bag and reaches inside. He can't go in there with guns, there's too many and Stiles isn't a good enough shot to guarantee that he will be able to hit all three of them. He can't set off a gas bomb without the risk of harming the pack and himself. His eyes catch a flash grenade at the bottom of the bag, and an idea drawls in his head.

He looks back at the pack, at the witches twirling their knives with sadistic smiles upon their porcelain faces. His heart pounds so loud and hard in his ears and in his chest, he wouldn't be surprised if the wolves can already hear him as he whispers, "Guys, on one, cover your eyes. Three. . . two. . ." he pulls the pin from the grenade, "one!"

He throws the grenade into the loft with a good swing, turning back and curling in on himself against the door, covering his eyes moment before there's a large explosion sound, followed by shrilling screams and cries.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks around the wall, grinning when he see's the witches stumbling back, withering on the floor with cries as his pack launch to their feet. Derek is already across the room, grabbing the head witch by the throat, snarling words that Stiles' hammering heart clouds over so he can barely hear. He's shaking when he rises to his feet, hand never leaving the metal sheet of the loft door to help him stay standing on his trembling, fawn-like legs. 

Jackson is curled over Lydia, as is Scott with Allison, shielding them both as they hadn't been able to hear Stiles' warning.

Peter and Boyd are standing over the other two, the pair of them knocked out on the floor, knives kicked away from them.

"Stiles!" Scott shouts, standing up and helping Allison. "How did you. . ."

"Erica texted me," Stiles replies, his voice shaky but hard. He feels betrayed the pack didn't tell him.

The pack turn to look at Erica, who doesn't in the slightest look apologetic.

She shrugs, "We were getting our hands handed to us. We needed Stiles."

Scott looks back to Stiles, opening his mouth but the human interrupts him.

"Why didn't you guys tell me?" He asks, trying to glare but feeling too dizzy. His stomach hurts more than normal, and his head feels heavy from the lack of sleep he's had recently. The food the pack have been forcing him to eat have lead him to lay awake at night, stomach swimming with nausea lead by guilt and shrilling memories.

"We. . ." Scott starts, looking around and eyes staying on Derek's a moment longer. He looks back to Stiles with a kicked-puppy expression that Stiles hates. "We wanted you to focus on getting better, not trying to figure out what the witches wanted."

Stiles was preparing for labels of weak, of being slow and stupid, about being human and breakable. He would have felt angry whatever excuse they had, but he certainly wasn't expecting that.

"You. . . you didn't tell me because. . ." he couldn't say it out loud, but he hopes the anger and hurt was clear in his voice. "Are you kidding me?!"

"Stiles, we didn't mean—"

"Watch out!"

The scream came from behind him, so Stiles stupidly turns around to the source.

A moment later, pain bursts in his chest so strong his vision goes white.

And then everything goes black.

Stiles wakes up two days later, in bed with his father and Derek by his side. They tell him the one of the witches woke up and blasted him in the chest, knocking him out. 

Stiles doesn't have time to think about how Derek is there, when he's already admitting that the pack have revealed the supernatural world to his father while he was out. 

He takes one look at his father, who sits on the edge of the bed, and the pain in his head and chest disappear from his notice. He can't stop the tears that sprout in his eyes and the sob that is punched from his chest.

He doesn't know when Derek leaves, he's too big crying into his father's chest, who's arms engulf his small frame and strokes his hair. 

"I'm so sorry," Stiles hiccups into his father's shirt. He feels a sickening sense of deja vu, back to when he'd revealed to his father about his eating habits.

"It's okay, Stiles," his father replies. "They told me you lied to protect me, which I understand. But from now on, no more secrets, no more lies. Do you understand, Stiles?"

He nods shakily. "I promise."

*****

Derek isn't surprised when Stiles finally snaps. He isn't surprised that despite Stiles revealing his habit months ago, that the teen isn't getting better, that his bones still stick out as horrifyingly as they did before. He isn't surprised when Stiles stops coming to pack nights, calling in that he's spending time with his father. Derek knows it's a lie. As much as the sheriff has changed his hours for Stiles, he knows the sheriff doesn't spend every waking moment at home with Stiles.

Stiles doesn't seem surprised when Derek climbs through his window. The teen is sitting at the desk, hunched over a book he's reading and taking notes from.

"Enjoying your evening with your dad?" Derek asks, sitting on the window sill.

Stiles freezes where he sits, not looking up from the page as he asks, "What are you doing here, Derek?"

"You said you were spending the evening with your father. You lied, again," 

Stiles reals around so fast Derek is surprised he didn't fall off the chair. "What do you mean, 'again'?"

"We both know you haven't been spending these past weeks with your father every time," Derek replies, raising an accusing eyebrow. 

"You don't know anything," Stiles practically snarls, and despite the venom in his tone, Derek can't imagine anyone would feel intimidated by Stiles' words when he's as thin and sick looking as he is: he looks like he hasn't slept in weeks, the purple bruises under his eyes so dark and so stark against his ivory white skin, almost as translucent as glass. His cheeks dip in under his high and prominent cheekbones. His eyes are huge and dark on his face, making everything else look so gaunt and small. His frame is tiny and fragile as he sits on his desk chair, practically trembling. Despite his layers on clothes, Derek can see the sharp edges of his elbows and knees, sticking out harshly through his jumpers and jeans that hang on his starved frame.

Derek can smell the exhaustion, the fear and the hunger wafting off the teen. He knows Stiles is hungry, and he knows Stiles knows he's hungry, but this stupid pact, this awful promise Stiles has formed in his mind is slowly killing him, making him and everyone around him powerless to stop it.

And Derek can't stand it anymore.

"Stiles, you don't need to keep doing this,"

"Doing what?"

"Hurting yourself," Derek replies. Hurting everyone else, he wants to add, but Stiles is drowning in enough guilt as it is - that's exactly what has caused this. "We can fix this, Stiles—"

"Stop! Just stop it! You can't fix me, Derek!" Stiles screams, launching up out of his chair in a flurry. "You can't fix me because I'm not  _broken!_ "

"I never said you were broken," Derek replies cautiously, shaking his head as he slowly rises from the window sill he sits on.

"But you're acting like it, you're  _thinking_  it and we both know it," Stiles snaps, tone cold. He laughs bitterly, the sound send a chill down Derek's spine. "This is why I didn't tell anyone. It wasn't a problem until every found out! And now, I'm being labelled, I'm being  _diagnosed_ , Derek, and I don't need to be diagnosed! I am not anorexic, or bulimic! I am not  _sick!_ "

"I know—"

"No, you don't! You don't know, because you don't fucking get it!" Stiles shrieks, voice cracking almost painfully. His lip wobbles, tears shining in his vulnerable eyes. He's trembling, legs quacking underneath him. His shoulders slouch, the fight draining out of him like someone took out the plug. "I'm trying, Derek, I really am. I know what I'm doing isn't healthy, I know that, I'm not stupid. I can't can't stop. I  _need_  to do this."

Derek shakes his head, fighting for his control. 

"You're right," he says. "I don't get it. I don't get how you could possibly thing your think your mother would have wanted this? Your old mother, the one who didn't have screaming fits and hit you,  _that_  mother? Do you think she would have wanted you to drive yourself into an early grave because of something she did when she was barely herself?"

Stiles is crying, the tears rolling down his cheeks and it pains Derek to know some of them are because of him, because of his harsh words.

"Stiles," he whispers, tone as soft as freshly washed sheets. "No one expects you to change over night, we just need you to understand that this can't go on. You can't keep starving yourself— _killing_  yourself, for your mother. She wouldn't have wanted this. And believe me when I say I know what guilt trip feels like, I know what you're going through when it comes to the feeling of betrayal. My entire family are laying in a grave because of my foolishness, but it's you who taught me that my family wouldn't want me to hate myself over something I was powerless to stop. You were the one who showed me, who proved to me that my mistakes don't make me who I am. Maybe it's time you took some of your own advise."

"I'm sorry," Stiles whispers. "I don't want to kill myself, Derek. This isn't like that, you know that. I just. . . I can't stop the feelings of guilt when I eat and I can't. . . how do I  _stop_  feeling that, Derek?"

"With help, and with time," Derek replies. "You've programmed this inside you, Stiles, for years, but together, and with the pack and your father, we can reverse it."

"Together?"

Derek smiles, crossing the room and cupping Stiles' gaunt cheeks that feel cold to touch despite the red blush on his skin. 

He presses a soft kiss to the younger teens lips and whispers, "Together."

 

_Said goodbye to you, my friend_  
_As the fire spread_  
_All that's left are your bones_  
_That will soon sink like stones_

**_Your Bones, Of Monsters and Men._ **

 

_— fin._

**Author's Note:**

> This story was messy, but I hope I was able to show in my writing that eating disorders don't heal over night, that it doesn't get better just because people know. It takes more than just support to get over a eating disorder, and nothing annoys me more than stories were love fixes everything.
> 
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and happy <3
> 
> tumblr: bananabishka  
> wattpad: stilesroden


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